I was innocently putting out the animals’ evening food when they came in.
“Hi, darling!” Cindy gave me a hug and a kiss. “Guess who I found loitering along the way?”
“He looks suspicious to me,” I replied.
“He is suspicious,” Sonny stated with a phony grin. “These days he seems to get more calls from his sister than he does from Harmon. That is enough to make anybody suspicious. What’s up?”
“Nothing that won’t wait until we sit down and enjoy what’s left of the sun. What are you drinking?”
Sonny opted for beer, Cindy for a scotch and soda, me for a bourbon highball. I played bartender while Cindy changed clothes and Sonny played with Fargo. We soon gathered on the deck, and I asked Sonny if his anonymous tip regarding the hit-and-run had proven fruitful. I wanted him relaxed before I brought up Cassie’s pirates. His opening crack about the phone calls hadn’t sounded entirely joking.
“Yes, I think it is the vehicle,” he said. “Just as our anonymous phone call told us, we found it on a side street in Orleans. It has front-end damage, with what looks like blood and some fibers caught in the headlight…could be from Mr. Alves’ clothing. We’ll know in a day or so.”
“Did you find the owner?” Cindy sipped her drink and pronounced it just right.
“Yes, and there’s no joy there. He lives in Eastham and swears the car was stolen. But he didn’t report it until yesterday, which is strange at best. We’re trying to verify his whereabouts at the time of the accident.”
“How’s Mr. Alves? Have you heard?” I rescued my cigarettes from Sonny’s side of the table and lit one.
“Yeah. I was just at the clinic. Dr. Gloetzner says the old fellow still thinks he’s Napoleon, but he did manage to ask where he was and why he was there. So I guess there’s hope.”
“I’m glad, he’s a nice old codger. His wife must be frantic.”
“You’re not far wrong,” he admitted. “But their daughter is here from Worcester, so at least she has someone with her. Look, Alex, I’ve got to get going. Want to tell me why Nacho said you sounded a little frantic yourself this afternoon?”
“Yes, but why don’t you stay for dinner? We have plenty.”
“That sounds like a winner. I guess I’d better start up the grill, then.” When there was a grill in sight, nobody cooked but Sonny.
We got ourselves rearranged and I showed Sonny and Cindy my new toy. When I told Sonny I had a duplicate for him, he gave me that big brother look and simpered, “Oh, thank you ever so!”
I told the two of them of my experiment downtown with the young couple and my inadvertent recording at the Rat. I had set it to start with Fred and Pauline to make him laugh, and he did, along with Cindy.
Then the Blues Brother came on and again he was amused. “That’s Bert McMichaels,” he chortled. “I’ll have to tell him to watch what he says around Fargo.”
I explained the two men I had passed on leaving the Rat and what had been picked up while I had been inside. Then I hit Play again.
The tape ended, and I turned it off triumphantly.
“There! Doesn’t that prove Harmon’s initial guess? Those men are no more staging a charitable clambake than I am.”
“It doesn’t prove a damn thing. I swear you get more like Harmon by the day. Every person who stops someone to ask directions is setting up a million dollar dope trade.” He stood and walked out to put the chicken on the grill.
Cindy went inside to finish dinner. She was obviously staying out of this.
Sonny returned, freshened my drink, got himself another beer and came back out.
“Alex,” he spoke carefully and softly. “I know you have been under stress lately, but you really are getting a little far out. You can’t reasonably expect me to arrest two men just because I don’t quite understand a conversation you shouldn’t have taped in the first place. Think about that young couple you taped at first. You said they wanted to get home and get Madison out of some lock-up. We assume Madison is a dog or cat, but what if he is their three-year-old son, locked in a cage under the care of a twelve-year-old, while they have a getaway weekend? Believe me, it has happened.”
“Everybody was sitting on some sort of public bench,” I argued. “None of them had a reasonable expectation of privacy. And the pirates didn’t mention seafood or their club or vets or anything bearing on what they told Cassie. I tell you, Sonny, they are dangerous phonies.”
“I gotta turn the chicken. Right back.” He loped across the lawn, flipped the meat and came back. “Okay. Look at what they probably meant. They want to make sure the suppliers will have enough clams and lobsters and whatever to fill their order, even though demand is getting heavy here in town. Do they have trucks available to go to the airport? Do they have enough employees to catch, process, pack and deliver it to Cassie at a given hour? Surely Cassie will need to know the approximate weight in order to figure her fuel situation, and size so she will know how to balance them in the plane. So Frank is a nitpicker, which may account for their mutual success on various jobs. What job? Installing vinyl siding? Painting a house? Fixing a car? Installing a furnace? Come on, Sis, the list is endless.”
“Well, I suppose it could go either way,” I admitted. “But think of Cassie. If it is dope, they’ve got to kill her somewhere along the way even if they just push her out over Lake Erie.”
“And we can’t let that happen,” he placated. “If she gets a definite time and date from these guys, I will personally inspect every cooler to make sure it holds nothing more than tomorrow’s dinner. Okay?”
“I guess.” I sighed. “But for Cassie’s safety can’t you have someone keep an eye on them?”
“My dear sister, I do not have the entire NYPD at my command. First I would have to assign people to find them, if they could, then use at least five people to tail them, et cetera. In the meantime restaurants could be robbed and old ladies mugged…all because of Harmon’s imagination and your Star Wars gizmo. C’mon, let’s eat.”
“Sonny.” Cindy had dealt herself back into the game. “Am I taking up too much of your time—and budget—with this stalker of mine? Apparently he is proving to be harmless.” Her voice quivered a bit. “If he even exists. Maybe you should just send Edgar on home.”
Sonny—always gentle with Cindy—reached across the table to pat her hand. “You let me worry about when to send Edgar home. Right now he’s doing what should be done.”
We all agreed that dinner was very good, but somehow none of us seemed terribly hungry.
Sonny didn’t linger after dinner. I don’t know if it was business or pleasure…or just a desire to get away from his bothersome sister and her bothersome friend. Cindy and I cleared up the deck and moved inside, leaving the aloof half-moon to make its chill, still progression across the pond. Cindy must have started the wood stove earlier, for the small living room felt warm and friendly. She came in bearing a tray with coffee and two small glasses of brandy—the snifters were at the house.
“I figured we might enjoy this with a little light conversation.” She smiled. “We have a choice of something over one hundred TV stations—and nothing to watch. I’m sick of meerkats—their problems are all too human. I am not smarter than a fifth grader—we didn’t have all that science stuff in fifth grade, did we? The only thing worse than American Idol is Don’t Forget the Lyrics. In the cops ’n robber shows they’re either busy screwing each other—one way or another—or lying on the floor bleeding. The sitcoms make the I Love Lucy reruns seem deeply intellectual. And the nature shows are all too depressing…the more so because I know it’s all true. So talk to me, baby.”
“Gladly. I only wish I had taped your little speech and sent it to every TV network. It’s a scathing commentary, and like your nature programs, all too true. First, my love, a question.”
I sipped my brandy and mentally snuggled in its warmth. Then I asked, “Has everybody you know been recommending that we should take a nice, long vacati
on…and soon?”
“Just about.” She laughed slightly. “Are we in that bad a shape? Do we need one of those old rest cures my grandma used to talk about? I think rest cure was a nice way of spending a couple of weeks in a pseudomental hospital. You figure that would help? Brisk walks before breakfast, calisthenics before luncheon, inspirational reading and a glass of warm milk and one small cookie at bedtime?”
“We’re probably not there yet, but it’s close. Seriously, I do think we need a break.” I steepled my fingers in front of my mouth for a second. “Nova Scotia sounds fabulous. But we’d really have to watch our pennies.”
“New York?”
“Hell, we could buy Nova Scotia for a week in New York.”
“Well,” she continued. “Personally I feel a little Vermonted-out for a while.”
I nodded agreement. “Same with Maine. It’s kind of like camping out in the backyard.”
“Yes.” She sounded discouraged and then brightened. “Then let me float this past you. Close your eyes and listen.”
I did as I was told.
“Visualize tall mountains, but not the harsh Rocky-mountain type. Softer, gentler ones with moss to lie on beside a small stream, with tall pines and oaks standing guard. In the distance the mountains seem to blur a little, as if a light, fragrant smoke drifts between them. Then you realize the fragrance is closer, and the whole mountainside has a pink cast from blossoming mountain laurel and rhododendron. Far up the stream you may luck out and see a mama bear teaching her cubs to fish. And lower down is a beaver dam. When you get anywhere near they slap their tails like a rifle shot and all disappear. Below the dam in the white water, otters play—that seems to be all they do, all day long. And in a nearby meadow polka dotted with yellow blooms, fox kits play-fight with mama serving as referee.”
I felt myself drifting as she continued.
“At the foot of the mountain is a sizeable lake where boats are limited to sails or small electric trolling motors, slow and barely audible. The lake is loaded with various bass and bluegill. The inn there will even clean and cook your own catch for your dinner. And at the top of the mountain is a small icy tarn, loaded with crappie that are the most tender, sweetest fish you ever tasted, and water so clear that when you look into it, you aren’t sure whether the clouds are above you or beneath. I’m sure you’ll want to make the hike up to it.” She gave me a sweet, totally sarcastic smile.
“And,” she added, “you hear the clop of horseshoes and look up to see riders on tall mounts with kind eyes and long, delicate legs, moving at a rapid, even pace they can continue for hours with no strain on them or you. Most comfortable ride in the world. Give ’em an apple and they’re yours for life. They’re Tennessee Walking Horses.”
“My God,” I breathed. “Cindy, are you suggesting suicide because you’ve made reservations for us in heaven?”
“Not quite.” I heard her pouring more coffee and opened my eyes, rubbing them and peering between my fingers like a child who has had a dream too good to be true.
She spoke briskly now. “Remember my cousin Ken and his wife Frances?”
“Yeah, I met them at your parents’ house once. He was something in politics and she was something in horses. Nice people, I thought.”
“You thought right. He’s in the Tennessee Legislature—probably governor in the next election. And between you and me, I think the two of them are practicing a fancy waltz for the Presidential Inaugural Ball down the road a piece.”
“Wow!” I sat up straight. “He asked me for a signed print of the picture of Fargo on the beach, leaping for a seagull. I sent it to him. You think he might hang it in the Oval Office?” “No. But it may be in his log cabin.”
“He’s got a log cabin? He’s bound to be elected. These guys with a condo in Aspen, and a mansion at Westhampton, and a modernistic abortion at Malibu…they’re a dime a dozen. Ain’t nobody got a log cabin no more! Where is it?”
“It’s in Tennessee, you idiot. He’s smart enough to keep that local boy image—just a simple mountaineer. It’s near Beulaland.”
“Beulaland. Is that a town or the Promised Land?” I asked.
“Sort of both. The nearest real town is Elizabethton.”
“Elizabethton, er…that’s exactly…where?”
“It makes kind of a triangle between Kingsport and Johnson City.” She was grinning openly at my discomfort.
“Kingsport, of course! Oh, yes, on the…uh, river! I’ve got it now.”
“Sure you do, darling. When you drag out a map tomorrow, find Knoxville and go kind of northeast.”
I didn’t deign to answer that. And her thoughts fortunately took another tack.
“What I’m trying to get to is this: Ken and Frances have been after me for ages to come down and use the cabin—now that he’s in Nashville so much, they rarely use it except in July and August, but they hate to see it just sit there empty. And their two kids are not quite old enough to let them go there alone. I don’t think I’ve been there in almost fifteen years, but it’s unforgettably beautiful and peaceful and fun in a bucolic sort of way. Should I call Ken and see if it’s not in use for a week or so?”
I got up and returned with the phone. “Here. Call.”
“Get my address book out of my purse while you’re up, please.” I was delighted to comply.
It was all settled in about two minutes. We would vacation in Tennessee.
After that it turned into a lengthy family gossip session and I took the animals out, trying not to yell hot damn! loud enough to startle the neighbors.
We finally got to bed, feeling as if large weights had been removed. Cindy struck a seductive pose.
“If we’re going into the woods, I’ll have to learn to be foxy.”
I put my arms around her. “Get a load of my bear hug.”
“I’m a big mouth bass; now where should I nibble?”
We carried on this rustic silliness into more and more graphic suggestions and the obvious conclusion.
Personally, I think it was a lot more fun than pretending Cindy was a rubber ducky in the bathtub.
CHAPTER TEN
Our getaway would have been a credit in speed to Scarface Al Capone with Elliot Ness in hot pursuit.
Cindy got Choate Ellis’s hearty permission to take two weeks off, and did everything ahead of time at work that could possibly be done in three days. And in the evenings, of course, she house-cleaned. “So we won’t come home to a mess.” I wondered if she had looked at the yard recently. It was my firm contention that Hadrian’s Wall had been a simpler endeavor.
I got Harvey Weinberg to cover my accounts and informed my insurance companies of that fact. I dropped off a bunch of clothes for our dry cleaner’s offer of Special 24Hour Service. They lived up to their ad, but it was the biggest scalping party since the Mohawks calmed down. We had decided to take Fargo, and the vet provided a booklet listing motels that accepted pets. Wells would go to Aunt Mae’s the night before we left, to begin a posh vacation of her own.
Cassie had an absolute library of maps and helped me plot our course. We wanted to avoid all large cities if possible; we wanted the most direct route available, but we wanted some of the lovely scenery we had been told lay along the way.
At first I thought it worked out rather well. We would take the Massachusetts Turnpike to its end, clip off a small corner of New York state, drop down to Scranton and pick up Interstate 81. From there we just stayed on I-81 in a more or less straight south-westerly shot across Pennsylvania, took a tiny bite out of Maryland and West Virginia, crossed the suddenly enormous-looking State of Virginia…and were in Tennessee.
Then I examined the length of the route Cassie had highlighted on the map, and looked up at her in considerable dismay.
“We thought we could make this in two days’ driving. This looks more like a week,” I groaned.
“Sure you don’t want me to fly you down? You can always rent a car, or maybe a pickup, at whatever airport
we may find down there. Lit or unlit.”
“Plowed or unplowed is more likely. Anyway, we both want to see the country. I’ve never been in that part of the world. The last time Cindy was there she was about fifteen, and her father was still teaching at University of Chattanooga, so it was a fairly easy day’s drive—from the other direction. And if we fly, Fargo can’t go. He’s scared of airplanes, as you know.”
“Yeah.” She pulled out a pair of calipers and walked them from Ptown to Elizabethton. “Close to a thousand miles. You can make it in two days if you don’t linger. You’ll be over the worst of it when you clear Scranton.”
“Fine. That just leaves most of the Appalachian chain to negotiate, and probably cows and pigs all over the road,” I grumbled.
Cassie laughed. “Interstates are not designed to have steep grades or sharp curves…that’s both their beauty and their eventual boredom. You may see the occasional deer or little critter, but I doubt you’ll get cows and piggies in the road until you get off of I-81 and over to…what was the name again?”
“Beulaland, and if you laugh I’ll clock you. And don’t ask me again if I know what a big patch of land called Kettlefoot Wild Animal Management Area means—although you might think of retiring there.”
I pushed my coffee mug toward her. “Get me a beer. What the hell has Cindy gotten us into?”
Cindy had gotten us into a vertical position at approximately three thirty a.m. We were hoping to leave a half hour later. Wells had been taken to Aunt Mae’s the night before. I had loaded Cindy’s two suitcases and my one into my car trunk while she was gone. I had also loaded dog food, doggy blanket and two favorite doggy toys plus a tennis ball.
This morning I had—I hoped—concluded the loading process. Our two gym bags holding cosmetics and other small necessities were now in the trunk.
Murder Takes to the Hill Page 7